


drabbles

by alisdas



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Star Wars - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Bikers, Daddy Kink, Drabbles, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Multiple Orgasms, Older Man/Younger Woman, Smut, biker!Bucky, buckys got a kink for seeing you w a ring on your finger, obi-wan is a terrible flirt and by terrible i mean good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:40:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisdas/pseuds/alisdas
Summary: drabbles taken from my tumblr!
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader
Comments: 13
Kudos: 177





	1. are you mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bruce banner x reader / 14. “I am your daddy.” 55. “I’m bored. Come over and sit on my dick.”

Bruce Banner is soft-spoken, sweet. He knows this. He doesn’t actively pursue it, but what can you do? He barely meets anyone’s eyes unless he knows them well, he makes stupid dad jokes that have you snorting, he flushes when you kiss his cheek in front of anyone. But there’s something there that only you manage to tug out. 

You’re not _dating_. He’s not sure what it is exactly. The older man is what one’d call a workaholic – before you, he’d eat and sleep in his lab. If he wanted to spice things up a little, he’d go eat and sleep in a lab in a different country! No time for dates. No time for girlfriends. No time for _anything_. 

Except maybe Tony’s new pretty little assistant-slash-intern-slash-apprentice. Young – not even out of college – sweet and funny and full of laughs, brings Bruce coffee and healthy takeout from a place so far away he doesn’t actually know how you get it. And when Tony dismisses you at 9:30 so you can both go home – you, to rest, Tony, to continue working at his home lab – you stick around, keep Bruce company. If he’s not in bed by midnight you drag him there yourself. 

Maybe that’s how it started. 

He had… thought about you. Holding your hand, kissing you… fucking you. As any sane man would, of course, because you’re fucking stunning and don’t seem to notice the hold you’ve got on him. But it was _weird_ – he was so much older than you, wrinkles tugging at the corner of his eyes and lips, greys sprouting from a select few areas on his head. And don’t even get him started on the Big Guy, who was making it his personal goal to meet you. You _excited_ him. 

So he’d never acted on it. For months it’d just been that rising, rising tension, always threatening to boil over before it was removed from its metaphorical hob and returned to simmering. And then you’d smile at him – that soft, bubbling smile reserved for him – and the cycle would start anew. 

One night the tension had snapped and broken. You’d taken the first move, right outside his bedroom door – stepped forward and wound your arms around his neck, pulled him close and kissed him breathless. And then you’d pulled back for a second, pupils blown wide and panting. 

“Take me inside?” You’d asked quietly. 

He’d swallowed. “…Course, princess.”

That night had been _intense_. You’d been so pliant and sweet, all gasping and whining into his mouth, scratching at his back and begging for more – _faster, please, I need it,_ and then–

_“Oh – daddy!"_

You had both cum at the same time because of that stupid fucking word – him with a disbelieving moan, you with a broken whimper and body-wracking shudder. He loves it, the trust you place in him. So many people walk around on eggshells around him, too terrified of making him angry and invoking the Other Guy. But he knew that that _word_ – that _5 letter word_ – meant that you trusted him. That you knew he’d take care of you. And _that_ was all he’s ever wanted.

So no, you’re not _dating_. You eat lunch together and test hypotheses and he calls you princess like it was the one thing his mouth was made to do but you’re not _dating_. Not when you’ve surely got a long line of young men looking after you.

He watches you now, flicking through files across the table from him, completely and utterly focused. So pretty. So _fucking_ pretty. 

"Hey, princess,” he calls softly, suddenly ready for a break. “You wanna come over here?”

“Just a sec, Bruce.” You’re just as quiet, as if speaking any louder would destroy the carefully cultivated peace. The files you’re looking for are completely redundant and unusable – at this point, it’s just playing hard to get. 

“I’m not asking.” He swipes away the hologram in front of him. He’s aware that he sounds like a douchey teenage boy. He’d probably get further faster if he’d just said **_I’m bored. Come over and sit on my dick._**

“You’re not my boss.” But you place down one of many thick binders and round the table, arms folded. You hop atop the counter easily, eyes levelled, and even with your apparent annoyance you still spread your legs, take hold of his shoulders. 

“ **I** ** _am_** **your daddy** ,” he replies – half joking, half serious. And he expects you to melt, like you usually do, but you stiffen instead. Immediately Bruce pulls back, holds your chin between his fingers. “Hey, what’s wrong?" 

You don’t answer for a moment. Simply ruck up your skirt and roll off your panties and lay down on your back, tugging him forward so he’s folded over you. He can feel your wetness, your _warmth_ through his slacks, and he swallows dryly. 

"Nothing.”

Your fingers work deftly to unzip his slacks, back arching as you reach down to pull him out of his briefs. He’s already hard — has been for the past while — and to his surprise you instantly just press him to your entrance, hook your ankles at the small of his back to push him in further. No foreplay whatsoever. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he breathes, resting his lips in the crook of your neck. “Don’t lie to me, princess. What’s bothering you?" 

He begins to thrust; lowly and languidly, forehead pressed into your neck, arms clinging to you like you’re the only thing he needs to survive. Which may be true – he just hasn’t had the courage to say it yet.

You’re screwing up your eyes when he raises his head again. “… _Are_ you mine?”

And you sound so fucking sad, so fucking upset, that he genuinely stops in his tracks. 

_Are you mine?_

Yeah, he’s yours. An understatement, really, and more than he’d like to admit – body and soul and all that. Somewhere between the late night trysts and coffee runs and stupid jokes he’d gotten in _deep_. Whether you’re _his_ is another story.

“C-course I’m yours.” He straightens up in confusion – almost forgets that he’s still balls deep inside you – awkwardly places his hands on your thighs because he’s not sure whether that’s okay for him to do anymore. “W-what makes you think otherwise?”

You open your eyes, then. Eyelashes clinging together from your watery eyes, bottom lip pouting out. “I – you never – I just thought…”

“Are you _mine_?” He doesn’t need to ask, really. Maybe it’s The Other Guy who wants the reassurance, maybe it’s him. But you deliver, dewy lips splitting in a shy smile. 

“Yeah. If you want me to be.”

The scientist beams. “Good.”

“Good.”

You stare at each other for a few moments, before you shift a bit, licking your lips. “Uhm, could you move–?”

“Oh, yeah, of course–”


	2. ti adoro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bucky barnes x reader / 40. “How many rounds was that? Four? God, we’re about to break our own record.” + 56. “You better muffle yourself with a pillow then, because I’m not stopping.”

Let it be known that you are _not_ a screamer. You’re not terribly experienced, you’ll admit, but you _have_ had boyfriends. You’d thought that they had left you satisfied – at most, panting against the sheets, eyes screwed shut. But James Buchanan Barnes was a whole other monster in bed. 

It’s a mission in Italy – a mission that’s not _really_ a mission, but you’ve got fake names and a ring on your wedding finger and when you sign into the hotel you both grin and introduce yourself as _The Morrisons_ , all lovey-dovey and enamoured. Which isn’t that hard to act, in all honesty. 

It’s sickeningly domestic – holding hands and fiddling with each other’s rings and calling yourself Mister and Missus Morrison – but it must’ve done _something_ to your boyfriend because–

“ **How many rounds was that? Four? God, we’re about to break our own record**.” Even _he’s_ panting, dropped to his elbows above you, hair hanging in tendrils around his face. 

Yes. It was round _four_. Round one started on the plane – first class, of course, because a private jet was too flashy but Tony said he felt _sick_ making you _newlyweds_ fly commercial. He had slid his hands down your skirt and left you dripping and aching to cum, waited until you reached the airport and then sneaked you both into the toilet. He had bent you so fucking weirdly that your hips still hurt – but he’d made you cum twice so you couldn’t _really_ be mad at him. 

Round two was in the car sent to pick you up from the airport. He’d rolled up the shaded partition and pulled you onto his lap, biting at your neck and grinding your hips against the bulge in his pants. You had rucked up your skirt and rode him, and you distinctly remember that when he came he clutched your hand and kissed the ring there. 

Round 3 and 4 came directly after the second, in the honeymoon suite of a romantic Italian hotel room. Flat on your stomach, Bucky had fucked you through three whole orgasms before he came – and then he’d went _again_ , and here you were. Oversensitive and shaking and trembling and fucking _tired_. 

So yeah, the whole _marriage_ thing was affecting your super-soldier boyfriend in the most positive way possible. 

“I can’t move,” you groan, rubbing your face against the silken sheets. “What the fuck is your problem, Barnes?" 

"What can I say?” Another smattering of kisses is placed on your shoulder, and you can’t help yourself. You melt into him, eyes fluttering shut. “Somethin’ about seein’ you with a ring on your finger, baby…" 

And your heart stutters, really, but–

"Bucky, I swear to God,” you threaten as you feel him beginning to stiffen inside you. You feel your chest tighten at the drag of his cock against your walls – too _fucking_ sensitive– 

"I–I can’t take anymore – I will _literally_ fucking _scream_ if we go again–" 

(And again, you’re _not_ a screamer. But _this_ is pulling your leg.)

His left hand – his metal hand – clasps over yours. The gold of your matching bands glints in the afternoon light, and for a second you really, _really_ imagine yourself in the place of this _Mrs. Jacqueline Morrison_ with Bucky. _Mrs. Bucky Barnes._

…That turns you on more than you’d like to admit. 

“ **You better muffle yourself with a pillow then, because I’m not stopping** , wifey…“ His lips drop to your ear, and you shiver instinctively– "After all, it’s our honeymoon, ain’t it?”


	3. friendly competition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bucky barnes x reader / 51. “Next time you do that, make sure it’s on my dick.” 56. “You better muffle yourself with a pillow then, because I’m not stopping.” 58. “I would obliterate your pussy, and you know it.”

James Barnes is an asshole. A condescending, irritating asshole who knows exactly how to get on your fucking nerves and—

“God — fucking — _dammit_ —!”

— and is putting you through the mattress right at this moment.

Truth be told, you don’t even know how you got here. You remember getting shoved in a closet with him for 7 Minutes in Heaven, and you remember absolutely _refusing_ to kiss him. 

“Why not?” He’d sneered, folding his arms. “You scared you’re gonna like it, sweetheart? Promise I’ll take care of ya real good–" 

"Oh, please,” you’d scoffed right back. “Let’s not pretend you know your way around a girl’s body, Barnes. I doubt you could even _find_ my clit–" 

**"I would obliterate your pussy, and you know it.”**

You were so fired up that you hadn’t even noticed how close you’d gotten; you could feel his breath on your lips, his chest against yours. So irritated by his cockiness, you hardly even registered what you said next until it was too late: “Fucking _prove_ it.”

You’d both been walking on eggshells around each other. There’d always been tangible tension, ever since you had shut down one of his rants in class and _essentially_ destroyed him – and from there it’d been a competition to one-up one another. You hated him, he hated you… but isn’t the line between hate and lust so very thin? 

“O-oh, fuck, James–" 

Yes, evidently. 

You’re lying on your stomach, hands pinned at the small of your back as he thrusts into you so deeply you swear you can feel him in your stomach. His sheets rub against your clit with every body-wracking slap of his hips against you, your throat hoarse from screaming and for a moment you really, _really_ feel sorry for doubting him so much. 

(No, you don’t. His ego is massive, he can take it.) 

A hand crowds underneath you, before seizing your neck and pulling you up. The shortness of breath makes you pant, pulsing around him instinctively and you hear him laugh in your ear. 

_Fucking asshole_. 

And as if he hears you, his fingers find your mouth – and you gag, obviously, because his fingers are fucking thick and he’s shoving them down your throat, but goddamnit, you love it. 

"Oh, baby,” he laughs breathlessly, **“Next time you do that, make sure it’s on my dick."**

"As fucking _if—”_ you grunt, because he’s laying into you _real_ deep now, slow, languid thrusts that have you refraining from shuddering all over– “there’s going to be a next time, you _ass_." 

"Oh?” And his hips still. Then, almost thoughtfully, they begin again. Slow and teasing and not nearly enough. “Really? You think you got enough of me in one night?" 

"Your dick game isn’t that impressive,” you say flatly. “Just make me cum and get this over with.”

You feel the heat of his breath as he dips his head again, placing kisses on your jaw so gently that for a moment you’re taken aback. “Don’t get antsy now, baby. I told you I’d take care of you didn’t I? Just…” His hips still again– “I think I’d like you to ask for it.”

“Ask?” You scoff, incredulous. “What, you get off on girls begging for permission–?" 

There’s a rough snap of his hips into you and you have to bite hard down on your lip to stop yourself from keening. The taste of iron is bittersweet on your tongue. 

"Not any girls,” he mutters, so quiet that you almost don’t hear. “Maybe just you.”

You’re going to pretend that your heart doesn’t flip when he says that, and focus on _what the fuck is going on._

_Did James Barnes just… confess to you?_

If you weren’t lying on your stomach and taking all 8 inches of him you’d be clutching your pearls. But you find the idea isn’t _quite_ as horrifying as you’d imagined. 

“… Maybe we can fit more than one night in tonight, but that’s all I can do,” you say after a moment. You can feel him freeze up behind you. “I’ve got exams soon, I don’t have time to be gallivanting around with strange men–”

“Strange men?!” His laugh is _really_ nice. Sweet and dorky – the opposite of what you’d expect from a man like him – and you only manage a huff of laughter yourself before you’re caught off guard by his steadily increasing grinds. “And _after_ these exams? Got any time for a _strange man_ like me?" 

”…maybe.“ 

He hums, and you swear to God if he stops again you’ll take back _everything_. "But for now… What’s the goal, baby? Three? Four?”

“Bold of you to assume you’ll get me to cum more than once,” you mumble, but you’re beginning to lose your breath as he picks up the pace once again. “I’ll warn you, though – I get loud after 2.”

You don’t have to look back to know he’s sporting a Cheshire Cat grin. **“You better muffle yourself with a pillow then, because I’m not stopping.”**


	4. study buddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bucky barnes x reader / part 2 to friendly competition / 22. “Show me your nipples.” 34. “You’re so fucking sexy when you do that.” 41. “Just for that, I’m gonna suck your clit ‘til you go blind.” 2. “Bend over, I’m not kidding.”

**“You’re so fucking sexy when you do that.”**

Okay, so maybe the whole ‘waiting until after exams’ bit is getting to James. It’s been a whole three days since you fucked and you still ache between your thighs. True to his word, he’d managed the impossible: you came 4 times that night. 

You glance up at him now, unimpressed. You knew studying with him was a bad idea. “When I what? Read _Pride and Prejudice_?" 

"No, no – I mean, yes. When you concentrate you get this lil… crease between your brows…” He reaches forward – _concentrating_ himself – tugging the plush of his bottom lip between his teeth as he reaches out to poke between your brows. “You look fucking sexy.”

“Alright, Romeo,” you snort. And you return to your reading. 

The silence doesn’t last long, and the second he opens his mouth you swear you’re two moments away from taping his lips together. 

“Lemme eat you out.”

“Wh– no!” Aghast, you peek around to see if anyone had heard him. But the library is virtually empty – it is, after all, 11 PM on a Friday. You’re both tucked away in a table at the back behind the History books that no-one ever takes out. “You should be _studying_.”

“Nah, I got this exam in the bag.”

You glare. “You’re awfully confident.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, slumping in his seat again. “You’re my only competition, and, well…”

“Well, _what_?” You demand, setting your book down. “You saying I’m not good competition, _Barnes_? If my memory serves me correct – and it fucking _does_ – I beat you by 10% on the last exam. That’s a big gap, Buckaroo.”

His own eyes narrow. _Oh, you hit a nerve._

 **“Just for that,”** he begins slowly, pushing his chair out, **“I’m gonna suck your clit ‘til you go blind.”**

“What part of _no_ don’t you understand?” But the promise is enticing and you part your legs anyway as he shimmies underneath the table. “You’re such a fuckboy, I swear–”

“I’m _loyal_!” He objects incredulously from beneath you. “I just like how you taste, baby.”

A fuckboy, you swear. But he’s got a way with words (and a way with his fingers, and with his tongue, and–).

You feel your skirt being rucked up and your panties being pulled to the side – seconds later, his face ducks up from the table, grinning wolfishly. “Kinda wet down here, baby. You okay?”

“Shut up before I scream,” you grunt, folding your arms. 

“Wouldn’t that be a dream?” He sighs. He retreats not two milliseconds after, though, and you hear him whistle lowly to himself. And then, so quiet you almost don’t catch it: “Fucking _hell_ , baby.”

You make a promise then that if he calls you baby once more you’re going to kick him because it makes your stomach flutter and your palms sweat – but then he licks a rough line up your pussy and you decide that _maybe_ you’ll allow him this one. 

Your head falls back as he does it again, and again, and _again_ , as if he’s trying to clean up whatever mess you’d made in your panties. And normally you’d be irritated – like, move onto my clit already, please – but he _genuinely_ sounds like he’s enjoying himself. Quiet groans in his throat and passionate movements of his jaw, and his hands grasp your thighs so tightly you _know_ there’ll be bruises. He smacks his lips wetly and you jolt, peeking out from behind the bookshelf to see if anyone had seen. 

“Calm down,” Bucky says, words muffled against you. “Nobody comes behind here on a Friday night. We’re golden.”

And as if to punctuate his point: a finger pulls back the hood of your clit, and true to his word, he _sucks_. Quickly, you shove your fist into your mouth and begin to gnaw on your knuckles, squeezing your eyes shut so hard that you see galaxies. 

“B-Bucky,” you whimper, “Unless you want me to get us fucking _caught–_ " 

"I know, I know,” he says, sighing. His face comes out from underneath the table again. “Hey, pull your top down.”

“W-what?” To be fair, you’re still delirious off pleasure because his thumb hasn’t stopped its grinding against your clit. “Why?" 

"So I can play with your tits,” he says easily, shrugging. “C'mon, sweet thing. **Show me your nipples**.”

You stare at him for a moment, disbelief written on your face. “You’re such a _man_.”

“And you’ve still got the limp to prove it, baby.”

“Whatever.” You pull your vest down, tug your breasts out of their cups – only to appease him and get him to shut up. Immediately he takes one in one of his grabby hands, all warm and rough as he tugs and pulls at one nipple.

So, okay, maybe he does know what he’s doing. _Sometimes_. 

“Hm, you like that, dontcha?" 

"Shut _up_ ,” you hiss, “if you get us banned from this library because of your dirty talk I’m never fucking you again– _shit_." 

A steady stream of suckling on your sensitive bundle of nerves calls your attention elsewhere; at the same time, your nipple is rolled between his index and thumb. You feel like you’re buzzing all over, and it’s not because you’ve had five cups of coffee in the last three hours. 

You don’t realise that you’re panting – fucking _close_ – until Barnes releases your clit with a _pop!_ , ducking underneath the table to peek up at you again. "You tryna get us caught?" 

"I’ll be quiet,” you promise through gritted teeth, shoving your tank top into your mouth. You restrain the urge to curse him out because you could feel the beginning flutters of your orgasm on the tip of your tongue and you know he’ll draw it out as much as possible if given the chance. “Just keep going." 

He’s wearing a victorious, shit-eating grin when he gets back to it, energy increases tenfold. He eats pussy like he’s competing for a trophy, a prize – truth be told, you don’t mind being his prize if he makes you cum as hard as you did a few days ago. His tongue moves eagerly, tracing letters and numbers and fucking book quotes on sensitive skin before sucking again. 

_No noise. No noise. No noise_. You never usually have a problem keeping quiet for the first orgasm. But as much as you hate to admit it, the act of being eaten out in a public library is _kinda_ sexy. And he _really_ knows what he’s doing. Maybe that’s why when you cum, you have no problem with clinging to any part of him you can get your hands on – the hand in your chest, his hair between your legs. A weak whimper follows as you contract around nothing, hips bucking gently into his mouth, and he takes it all in kind. 

_Fuck_. 

He slides back from under the table and resurfaces a meter away, grinning widely like the cat that got the cream. You imagine the image of you looking so ruined because of him is doing stuff for his ego – so as quickly as possible you pull down your top and readjust your skirt, panties irritatingly rough against your skin. You’re probably sweaty as _fuck_. 

"Good, huh?" 

"I was going to insult you just there but even I’m not that bad,” you mumble, wiping your forehead. “Whatever, Barnes. You give good head, I’ll give you that.”

He hums, leaning backwards. “Thanks, baby. Now, bend over." 

” _Excuse_ me?“ You say. 

"That was just the starter, baby. We need to get to the main course, don’t we?” You’re so genuinely shaken by his unfaltering confidence that you just _stare_. “ **Bend over, I’m not kidding**.”

You’re in a _library_. The cunnilingus was already a reach – but you _do_ love the feeling of him inside you. And he _does_ always take care of you. And–

You sigh in defeat, standing. You were gonna beat him in the test _anyway_. “Remember what I told you last time?" 

"You get loud after two. I’ll keep that in mind, baby.”


	5. a little wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> biker!bucky x richgirl!reader

Hot breath smooths over the back of your neck, leaving goose-bumped flesh in its wake. 

James ‘Bucky’ Buchanan Barnes has you bent over the outdoor balcony of the fancy venue — you stopped caring approximately 10 minutes ago, when he first jammed his hands into your underwear and grasped your jaw. The balcony, thankfully, is positioned around the side of the venue, so no-one would even notice the fact that you’re close to cumming all over the fingers of a fucking _biker_ in _public_ at your _father’s re-election campaign._

(This is a good time to reiterate that you are maybe the country’s number one spokeswoman on making bad choices.)

“Don’t you like this better?” And God, he’s so fucking _cocky_ , he _always_ is, chest plastered to your back, hunched over your form like he’s trying to mold himself onto you. You can’t see his face, of course, both from the position you’re standing in and the fact that your vision went blurry about 10 minutes ago too, coincidentally — but you _know_ he’s smirking the way he does, overconfident and _rude_ because you specifically told him that you weren’t gonna end up in this situation and— “Look down at ‘em, pretty girl. Don’t you like it better up here?”

His grip on your jaw tightens — his fingers on your clit speed up, pressing tighter against the sticky, slick flesh — and he wastes no time in yanking your head to the right. “Hey.” A light slap to your face that has your eyes focusing on the festivities. “I want you to look at ‘em when you cum. You know, when you get back down there, you’re gonna have to look them in the eyes, sweet thing, knowing that you just had Bucky Barnes’s fingers playing in your pretty pussy—”

“You — bastard — fucking — _bitch_ —!” It’s the only thing you can get out. Fucking curses between gasps and shudders, hardly intelligible, eyes watering because fuck — someone really could catch you like this, some stuffy-nosed politician or some belittling trophy wife that would clutch her pearls and point. That turns you on more than you’d like to admit.

Because you’re _____; resident good girl in the eyes of the public, daughter of an important senator. You’ve begun attending Harvard a year early and go to charity balls and fundraise for orphanages and at night you go to the nearest club and get _shitfaced_ (shitfaced on expensive tequila, of course. No cheap shit) and fuck the closest warm body. Except for the past few months it hasn’t been the closest warm body, has it? It’s been Bucky. James. Whatever you want to call him.

President of his chapter, all 6-foot something of corded muscles and crude tattoos and cigarette smoke. Long hair that he pulls into a haphazard man bun at the nape of his neck, and you’d make fun of him for it except he really actually pulls it off. _Fuck_. He’s been a thorn in your side since you met him, watching you dance with your fourth shot of the night in your hands. 

_What’s the city’s favourite daddy’s girl doin’ dancin’ like that?_ was the first thing he said to you. If you’re being honest with yourself, you kinda _knew_ you were going to sleep with him the second you laid eyes on him. He was everything your parents hated and you had a habit of doing everything in your power to piss them off. So you did — hot and sweaty and sloppy in the disgusting bathroom. You couldn’t walk straight for two days, and your throat was bruised for longer.

( _I’m not a daddy’s girl_ was what you’d replied — and oh, he taught you different.)

“You’re gonna cum, ain’t ya?” The thick arm wound under your breasts squeezes closer, forcing you upwards. “See, I can tell. You always get so _mean_ when you’re gonna cum. Hurts my feelings, baby.”

“Shut your fucking _mouth_.”

“Weren’t telling me to shut my mouth that time in your fancy car,” he hisses hotly, _angry_ , “Begging me to tell you to cum because you can’t without daddy’s permission, ain’t that right?”

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Oh, you did, darlin’.” He chuckles, then, dark and mocking in that way that only makes your knees weak. God, you really _do_ have daddy issues, don’t you? “Again, and again, and again. And you _will_ again, because you can’t fucking resist me.”

You feel your walls flutter with the first waves of your orgasm — it’s a word-loser, you can tell. You won’t be able to string together a coherent sentence for a minute afterwards. “You’re a — a cocky sonuvabitch, Barnes.”

He hums, kissing the skin behind your ear so gently that you jolt — taken aback by the shift in dynamic and the contrast between his frantic rubbing and his tight grip. “And you love me, don’t ya?”

And fuck—

That does it for you. 

Mark you down as an emotional _bitch_ because yes, that made you cum. James Barnes knows how to play you like a fucking fiddle and he knows that _you_ know, because he’s sniggering like a little kid behind you, helping you ride out your orgasm with a few choice phrases that almost make you turn around and jump his bones:

_“There you go, sweet girl. So pretty when you cum, you know. Wetting up daddy’s fingers real good.”_

“…Goddammit, Barnes.”

You thank every God that’s ever existed that you’ve brought your makeup bag because you’re sure that your cheeks are streamed with mascara and your lipstick is smeared to your chin — your knees knock together in your heels as you bend forward and rest your forehead on your folded forearms.

“Might wanna clean yourself up, sweetheart,” Bucky comments, tapping your ass as he passes. You hear the tell-tale _thwick_ of his lighter starting up. “Don’t want your daddy seein’ you all fucked out, eh?”

“Don’t start acting all high and mighty _now_ , Buck,” you say, finally lifting your head and peering at him over your shoulder. “What was it you said two days ago? You know, when I was on my knees with your cock halfway down my throat?”

The biker narrows his eyes, because he remembers and he _hates_ that he remembers, because, well:

You were supposed to be a quick fuck. A middle finger to your father who was on the police’s ass about having his chapter monitored closer, a wish that made it hard for Bucky to carry on his business as usual. But now he was kinda looking forward to your meetings and wondering what you were doing during the day and really hoping that he gets to stay and cuddle you at least once. (Of course, that would insinuate that you have sex in a bedroom. Which you haven’t. There’s been backseats and alleyways and dingy bathrooms and there _was_ that time on his motorcycle…) 

And he let that slip when you were on your knees. What can he say? You give good head.

(“Fuck. _Fuck_ , _ **I love you**_ , sweet thing. C’mon, take it deeper, princess, I know you can—”)

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Just narrows his eyes even further and takes a drag of his cigarette, and you smile victoriously.

“Yeah,” you say, straightening up. “That’s what I thought. I’m gonna get cleaned up, okay? Wait here.”

(He’s not even supposed to be within a billion feet of this stupid fucking campaign, never mind making you cum in plain sight. But for some reason, he stays put.)


	6. within the grey area

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bucky x criminal!reader / “Don’t be fucking rude.” + “You think you’re funny?”

Let it be common knowledge that Bucky Barnes has seen you in every situation imaginable. _Every_ situation. 

Dressed to the nines at a charity gala – a gala which was promptly cut short when one of the main benefactors was found dead on the balcony. Half-naked and covered in blood after slitting the throat of an arms dealer in Monte Carlo. Wearing a wedding dress and a bright blue wig on the tube in London, lipstick smeared to your chin. (That was his doing, mostly.)

But this? Oh, this takes the cake in the tea party that is your love-hate relationship.

Chained to the table of _interrogation room one_ , all diamonds and glitter and narrowed eyes. A champagne slip dress hangs off of you, one stiletto on your right foot and the other foot bare. Your hair is halfway between a ponytail and a bun, frizzy in some areas and hanging limp in others, and–

You’ve been glaring at him for the past ten minutes. Bucky can’t help it. He starts to chuckle.

You grow even more acidic, if possible. Leaning back in your chair – though not far, the handcuffs allow only a certain amount of movement. “ **You think you’re funny**?”

“C’mon,” the centurion says, stretching out his words. He holds his hands out, shrugging. “We both know we were gonna end up like this sooner or later, doll.”

“ _Sooner or later,_ ” you mock. “Would’ve come sooner if you weren’t adamant on fucking me every chance you got.”

Ah, yes. And there’s _that_. See, the whole _every situation_ thing came with a little more lore than he had let on. The charity gala had been preceded by a tryst in an out of the way janitor’s closet. The murder of the arms dealer – well, there was a reason you were half-naked. The wedding dress had been rucked up around your waist, that other time.

“Do your friends know about that?” You jut your chin towards the mirror to your left, lips suddenly pulling into a taut, mocking smirk. There’s nobody behind that mirror – you don’t know that, though. “Hm? Do they know you like fucking me, Bucky? That you like pulling up my skirts and pushing my panties aside and–”

“ **Don’t be fucking rude** ,” he interrupts, slowly leaning forward. Your eyes trail over the lock of hair that sweeps forwards as a result, lips pursing in annoyance, before you find yourself staring straight at him again. And he holds your stubborn gaze like that for a few seconds, as stubborn and resolute as your are, but he’s unable to stop himself from stealing a glance at the swollen flesh of your lips. “Looks like you’re forgetting your manners.”

Your hard-set features crumble at that.

“Seriously?” You hiss, almost in _disbelief_ , and in the back of his mind Bucky thinks that _maybe_ he should be worried that a _criminal_ can read him so well. Maybe. “Here, Bucky? You want to fuck _here_?”

What can he say. He’s always had a thing for the mean ones.


	7. of mud and MREs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> obi-wan kenobi x translator!reader / "You're a terrible cook."

A seven-rotation mission on Tiore. Read: _hell_. 

It’s swampy. Muddy. Humid. Sticky. You think you started sweating the second you entered the planet’s atmosphere – you’d already shed your jacket, your t-shirt plastered to your back and your hair sticking to your forehead, and that was _before_ the four hour trek to the nearest village. Now, sitting before a – _very unnecessary_ – campfire, you feel like all you can do is sit and wallow in your own dirt. 

Disgusting. You feel disgusting, and half-dead, and quite frankly undesirable – but Obi-Wan Kenobi stares at you from across the way like you are anything but. The blue-eyed Jedi is clothed in his regular pale robes – albeit scarred with purple mud – hair mussed from the heat and cheeks ruddy in the glow of the fire. His lips are parted in a tired smile, his shoulders shaking with laughter from the clone soldiers around him, and–

 _Maker_. Can he feel it, you wonder? Can he feel the way your heart beats faster? The way your stomach turns pleasantly with every stolen glance? _It would be embarrassing, yes,_ you think idly. _But at least I wouldn’t have to tell him myself._ It’s already embarrassing enough that you’re _in_ this situation – you, a simple translator, in love with a Jedi Master?

A fool. You are a fool.

But the second he sees your eyes clear, he smiles that little half smile of his – the one that makes that fluttery feeling press all the way up against your ribs, rendering your hands shaky and too hot – and he stands. You see him puff out a tired breath, brushing his hands against his robes, and you’re suddenly very angry that Obi-Wan still manages to look so _perfect_ with dirt spread across his torso. Though that is to be expected of the Jedi Master, who you have never seen look short of excellence.

He rounds the side of the fire, sharing pats on the shoulder and good-spirited jokes along the way – even now, even exhausted and overheated and covered in filth, he instills hope in his men. And he instills _more_ than hope in you, you find, as he nears you with a sweet-tempered smile and a short shake of his head – something deeper, more unpredictable, much more _incriminating_ given his status.

“You look miserable,” he greets, plopping himself down on the upturned log you’ve made yours. 

You hum, trying not to think _too_ hard on his proximity or the fact that his hair looks like woven gold in this light or that his nose is the prettiest shape or–

Maker, get a grip.

“Yes – something about being hungry and covered in mud and sweat doesn’t appeal to me,” you reply, risking a glance upwards. Fatigue-widened eyes scan the length of his face – and, upon being caught, return hastily to the fire. “And my skills as a translator are hardly useful in blaster fights.”

In truth, you’d wondered just why you were picked for this mission – what use was a translator on a simple reconnaissance? Of course, _simple_ was what you thought before the locals turned hostile and tried to kill you – but you had been specifically requested by Obi-Wan. _Specifically_. 

“Well,” he begins – hiding what you think (hope) is his own bashful smile– “the heat and sweat I can’t quite do much about. The hunger, on the other hand–”

And from behind him – like magic – he procures an MRE. That blue rectangular container that you’d lost along with the rest of your pack when you were forced to flee your first camp. Your stomach rumbles at the thought, but your first thought when he places it upon your lap is to refuse.

“No, I can’t.”

“Why not?” Obi-Wan says, incredulous. “Think of it as a gift.” 

“They’re _your_ rations, Obi-Wan–”

“I have more in my pack. And since it’s technically _my_ fault you’re here…”

He pops open the lid – hands you the tiny metal fork that comes along with it, a silent order that’s solidified with the amused raise of his brows that comes after. “You’ll need the energy.”

You try not to read into it too much – try not to let your mind run with every theory and possibility under the sun, because Obi-Wan seems like he _cares_ about you even despite everything happening around you, and he’s looking at you so _softly_ , and–

He chuckles, glancing down at his hands clasped in his lap, and your cheeks burn. So he _can_ feel it.

Hurriedly, you shove the first food you see in your mouth – and very nearly gag, because even your hunger can’t disguise how _disgusting_ these _kriffing_ rations are.

“What do you think?” Jokes Obi-Wan, bumping his shoulder against yours. “I made it myself, of course.”

“I think… I think **you’re a terrible cook** , Master Jedi.”

Obi-Wan hums. “Just wait until we’re back on Coruscant. My cooking rivals that of the best culinary masters, I assure you.”

Is that…? Is that an invitation? This is dangerous, _dangerous_ territory. And yet, your answering smile is giddy, poorly hidden as you bow your head towards the rations, bottom lip pulled tight between your teeth. “That sounds like a promise.”

“Oh, it is.”


End file.
